Flanders Field
by Naaer- inactive
Summary: The Doctor finds solace in his garden, where memories abound and meaning lay forever, living, breathing.


I disappeared again, I know x) I've been in Rhodes - the Acropolis is ama-zing!- for the past week and a bit.

And now, a bit of poetic inspiration, hence the title. I'm not going to post the whole thing, but even so I suggest you read it, it's a lovely poem :) The poppy imagery gave way to me looking up the meaning of the companion names -as flowers- and, boy, the symbolism makes me think the writers didn't just pick them randomly... ;)

And this goes to show that, although I was born in the NewWho era, I have gone back and watched ClassicWho... ;)

And, yes, I'm a bit of a gardener myself XD

* * *

><p><em>We are the Dead. Short days ago<em>  
><em>We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,<em>  
><em> Loved and were loved, and now we lie,<em>  
><em> In Flanders fields.<em>  
>-John McCrae, 1915<p>

* * *

><p>Nowadays the sleek, pristine walls beckon him to their depths, the ochre roundels winking coyly, the paths never-ending. It seems a cruel twist of fate on his ship's part. And then, after corridor after endlessly winding corridor, harsh on his dark eyes, she brings him salvation.<p>

Just a small, inconspicuous door. Frosted glass, silvery frame, and something hidden behind it. Something fresh, something inviting. It even _smells_ fresh and new.

And new is what he needs.

He opens it to a wash of green.

He'd forgotten this was here, so lost in his thoughts and emotions, letting his sanity devour him bit by bit.

The TARDIS has preserved this garden, tending to it with her own magical green thumb. Her walls held other rooms that cradled parks and nature reserves, the fauna and flora a mixture of real, burgeoning life and cybernetic imitations.

The garden bloomed into life, each bush and free pregnant and heavy with fruit and flowers. It was like another -allegedly smaller- garden of Eden. Over to his right, a Birdwing butterfly flitted about the rhododendrons, the gleam of its scales far surpassing that of the smaller species.

The sheer sense of life -of just _being_- brought a lump to his throat.

But the presence of living, breathing things brings thought to those that no longer do just that.

Susan. Jo. Ace.

His head dips in pained rememberance, eyes squeezed shut. They would have gone eventually, he reminds himself. They were _human._

He passes a clump of sage, and pauses. Lovely as Romana as, she could be brash, and the pinkish flowers with their pure white tips brought a wistful smile to his face. _Great respect. Wisdom. Female fidelity._

The dazzling row of snowdrops speak their silent sympathy to him, consoling him with their small hope.

Another wistful smile, as he bends down, bones creaking with the unspoken age of a Time Lord, to finger the petals lightly.

_Like Donna_.

She was always there. Brash, and sometimes not knowing when to use her indoor voice. But, always there.

A beam of light heralds the wave of forget-me-nots, blue and indistinct, crowding each other out.

_I'm just a temp. _ Those words, over and over. She had thought she was nothing.

Now he only had memories, while she had none.

Something burns in his throat, pricks at the corner of his eyes.

This bounty reaps so much from him. He should appreciate it, all that his TARDIS has done for him. Carried him in safety when the winds of Time threatened him. She gave him luck. Always knew what was best for him.

He squints at the haze of reds, pinks and purple ahead. And his hearts lurch.

The rosemary, spicy and sweet, heralds the metal arch covered with thick wreaths of crimson roses, the heads blooming bright and large. He swallows, a invisible barrier blocking his path.

If anything beckons him, it's this. Like a Siren's call, the invitation of a path from the rigid conformities of his homeworld, rules and regulations he still keeps. Domesticity, emotion and selfish pursuit.

He walks in, captivated by the scent of a further mass of yellow and pink ones, spilling onto the gravel path. Birds twitter afar, and he once more loses himself in memory.

Everything seemed so perfect, the coral pink blooms tell him. They never cared about the dangers. So reckless.

Yet the dark ones reminded him, that, despite their loss, she was happy now. She was thankful, as was he. As he would always be.

White and yellow flank each other, conflicting. He remembered the jealousy, the fleeting looks. And he'd said.

_You wither and you die_. Even a few of the roses were drooping, a few leaves blackened with greenfly, despite all the care.

He thought she'd known -that she'd always known. But, he, being so ancient, and all-knowing, forgot her youth. The pure white blossoms accused him, glaring with their whiteness.

The tears threaten to make their entrance once more.

And roses, all of them, had thorns.

He had to admit their relationship wasn't easy. Martha's arrival hadn't exactly made his gaping loss easier, but, oh, it wasn't her fault. He'd been so damn feckless with her, he realized, holding the stare of the proud yellow tulips. _Hopeless, unrequited love. There's sunshine in your smile._

He saw the way she glanced at him sometimes; coy little glimpses, stealing him silently. He remembered of Feazon 12, after he's nearly lost a life, she'd rewarded his recovery with flowers. He'd laughed at the sentiment, and then saw the little white violets peeking out among the gerberas. _Let's take a chance._

His feckless nature only grew, matching the spiralling growth of the pink geraniums in a vase in his unruly room.

But he'd done likewise, slipped in the subliminals here and there. On a 'date' to Paris (although it ended up chasing down rogue Time Police and a couple of space ninjas) he'd slipped the young head of a an arum into her hair, earning himself a warm smile.

Sometimes the most meaningful flowers didn't have to be the most exquisite.

Now, the sunflowers. The tall that swamped the dwarf. This was Amy, in all. Her hot-headness, born of her fiery hair, which sometimes reaped bad results. He shuddered at the memory of Rory's constant deaths.

River once give him a single red tulip. _Believe in me._

His treck had brought mud to his shoes, soil to his callused fingers. The frosted door was in sight. With a sigh, and once glance back at the beauty and horror of his long life, he went once more. Onwards. Seeking more flowers.


End file.
